Chapter 3
Three
Vaskel wiped down the bar with more force than strictly necessary, the worn wood gleaming under his crimson fingers.
He’d been eyeing the door all night, but so far, there had been no sign of Iris.
He gave an absent rub of his tingling wrist and busied himself pulling a pint for a bandy-legged sailor who was a long way from port.
Sliding the tankard across the bar and scooping up the dingy copper bits in return, Vaskel cast his gaze across the tavern’s great room that hummed with comfortable chaos.
Warmth radiated from the massive stone hearth, flames spewing shadows across the rough-hewn beams overhead.
The air was thick with the scents of cinnamon, peat, and Lira’s latest batch of meat pies cooling in the kitchen.
Underneath it all lingered the familiar tang of ale and the sweetness of mulled wine that had become the drink of choice as the nights had gotten colder.
Sass sauntered toward him with a tray balanced on one hand, her dark braid swinging and her ample hips swaying.
The dwarf had become an expert at weaving her way through the crowded tables, dodging flailing arms and close-pressed bodies without breaking stride.
But even she blew out a breath when she reached him, tucking a cloth into the waistband of her brown skirt.
“Another round of ale for the table in the corner.” She flicked her dark eyes toward the kitchen doors. “Any word on fresh meat pies?”
Vaskel shrugged. He knew better than to poke his head into Lira’s kitchen and ask. Being hurried did nothing but make her glower these days. “Why don’t you ask the bride-to-be?”
Sass snorted a laugh. “I prefer to keep my head, thank you very much.” Then she lowered her voice. “You don’t think her recent moodiness is wedding jitters, do you? You don’t think she’s having second thoughts?”
Vaskel glanced at the stone fireplace where Korl occupied one of the oversized armchairs, the orc’s massive form making the furniture look like it belonged in a child’s nursery.
He was sketching something on a piece of parchment, probably a design for a new gadget.
Vaskel thought about how the guard-turned-tinker had courted Lira by making her a new stove, and a smile tugged at his lips.
“I don’t think she’s having second thoughts about Korl,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Aye.” Sass nodded. “You’re right. She adores the big, green lug.”
Vaskel grinned at this, knowing that Sass’s barbs were terms of endearment. “And how’s your big, blonde lug?”
Sass tried to wrestle away a pleased look as she cleared her throat. “I don’t know if she’s mine. It’s not like we’re the ones engaged.”
The broad-shouldered guardswoman sat in her usual chair across from Korl, knitting needles clicking in a steady rhythm. Val held up what appeared to be the beginning of a white wool scarf, catching Sass’s eyes and grinning.
“Not yet,” Vaskel teased before squinting at the knitting. “Another scarf?”
“Scarves are her specialty.” There was both pride and a hint of defensiveness in the dwarf’s voice. “This one is for the wedding.”
“Could be a table runner if Lira doesn’t want to wear a scarf down the aisle,” Vaskel suggested, avoiding a sharp look from Sass.
“Scarves are what she does best,” Sass blew a loose curl off her forehead. “Well, that and swinging a sword.”
Vaskel chuckled as he retrieved a clean tankard from beneath the bar and began filling it with dark ale. “Speaking of those with a fondness for weapons, have you seen Thrain?”
Sass swept her gaze across the great room, wrinkling her nose when it didn’t land on her childhood friend. “He’s probably sleeping off last night’s apple brandy drink-off with Rog.”
“That explains why the gnome isn’t here.”
Rog was another of Vaskel and Lira’s former crew who’d found his way to the village, along with his brandy-brewing wife, Rosie.
“They aren’t the only ones who might need to sleep it off.” Sass gestured with her head to one of the long tables. “Pip, Fenni, and Tin are having a rather heated debate about whether sugar-work sculptures are the best centerpieces.”
As if summoned by the mention of their names, the three villagers’ voices rose from their table.
“Sugar work is an art form!” Pip insisted, his wiry hair still dusted with flour although he’d left his bakery long ago. “I can create snowflakes you would swear are real!”
“But sugar is very fragile, brother.” The halfling cheesemonger patted his brother’s chubby hand. “And you have enough work to do just baking the wedding cake.”
Pip frowned at this, but bobbled his head in tacit acknowledgement of a good point. “The cake will be spectacular.”
“That’s why fabric is the perfect alternative.” Tinpin adjusted his emerald cravat, and his long, pointed gnome’s cap flopped to one side. “Perfect, I tell you. Silk snowflakes will never shatter. Never, never.”
“They’ve been at it for an hour,” Sass said with a wicked grin as she plopped the full tankards on her tray and backed away from him. “I’m half tempted to suggest ice sculptures just to watch them unite against a common enemy.”
Vaskel laughed, glad for the distraction from his impatience. The contentment had barely settled in his bones when the tavern door burst open, bringing with it a blast of winter air that made everyone near the entrance yelp and huddle deeper into their cloaks and shawls.
Cali strode inside, her gray fur speckled with snowflakes, making her look momentarily spotted. The pantheri shook herself from her pointed ears to the tip of her striped tail, sending droplets of melted snow flying.
She pushed back her hood. “It’s really coming down out there.”
Behind her, Iris emerged, hidden beneath a heavy cloak.
The village apothecary brushed off some of Cali’s scattered snowflakes before tossing back her hood and revealing her mass of curls teased with glints of silver.
Her violet and orange patchwork skirt jingled as she walked to the bar and slid onto a stool, while Cali hurried to warm her fur by the fire.
Vaskel gave the apothecary his most charming smile, the one that had gotten him out of (and occasionally into) trouble across half the Known Lands, and hoped she couldn’t tell how relieved he was to see her. “I thought the snow might have kept you away.”
She rubbed her hands together and shook her head. “I’ll admit that it delayed me and that it was tempting to stay curled up in a chair at home.” She gave him an amiable smile. “But a promise is a promise. Now, do you have any of that mulled wine?”
He pivoted to an earthenware pitcher, pouring a generous amount into a pewter goblet and sliding it across the bar to her.
His gaze tracked the delicate way she wrapped her fingers around the stem, and when the tips of his fingers brushed hers, a tingle sent heat sliding up his hand.
He pulled back, rubbing his fingers and wondering if the apothecary possessed magic, after all.
Iris seemed unaffected as she took a sip and sighed. “Perfect.”
Vaskel smiled, but his attention was almost instantly hijacked, and it wasn’t from the pleasant buzz of her touch.
The prickling sensation had returned, the one he’d first felt months ago when he’d worn Iris’s charmed ring that signaled danger, and again that morning.
But this time there was no ring to blame.
His hand moved involuntarily to his wrist, rubbing at the spot where his sleeve met his hand. The sensation was an insistent itch that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
Not now, he thought, forcing his hand back to the bar.
But even as he tried to dismiss it, the sensation intensified. The prickle that had started as a faint murmur beneath his skin was now emerging as something darker and more insistent.
“Vaskel?” Iris’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Are you unwell?”
He dredged up a grin, the kind that had fooled guards and maidens alike. “A bit tired is all.”
But as he reached for an empty tankard from farther down the bar, his sleeve shifted, and he glimpsed his wrist. His breath lurched in his throat.
There, barely visible against his skin, were marks. Dark lines that hadn’t been there this morning curled up from his wrist like smoke rendered in flesh. They were so faint he might have dismissed them as tricks of the firelight, but he knew better. He’d seen marks like these before.
The tankard slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering on the bar and splattering warm dregs of ale. Several patrons looked up, but Sass was already there with a cloth, tsk-ing at him good-naturedly.
“Butter-fingers tonight, are we?” she said, but her expression was concerned. “You feeling all right, Vask?”
“Just weary,” he managed, pulling his sleeve down as far as it would go. “It's been a long day.”
Sass didn’t look convinced, but a call for ale from another table drew her back to the great room. It was Iris who didn’t look away, her dubious gaze following him as he attempted to go about his work.
The last time he’d seen dark marks etched in skin, the wearer had been consumed by dark magic. Dark magic that had rebounded on him. But Vaskel hadn’t been playing with magic of any kind.
The hellkin twitched as he thought back to that night on the cliffs. He had been in close contact with the dark magic. Could the marks have infected him? He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thought. He’d been fine for months, shown no signs, felt nothing unusual except...
Except for that prickling when he’d worn Iris’s ring that warned of danger. What if the danger it had been warning him about was himself? What if he was infected with dark magic?
“Vask?” Lira’s voice made him jump. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her auburn hair dusted with flour, worry pleating her brow. “Sass said you’re not feeling well. Do you need to take a break? We can handle the bar.”
“I’m fine,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “Just tired and overheated.”
Lira arched a brow at this. A hellkin too warm? Luckily, she didn’t call him on it.
“Go,” she said. “Get some fresh air.”
“That’s right.” Sass came behind the bar and used a dishtowel to shoo him away. “I can cover the bar for a bit. You take a breather.”
He mumbled thanks, grabbed his cloak from the peg behind the bar, tromped woodenly across the great room, and stepped out into the snowy night. The cold was biting, but he welcomed it. Maybe it would clear his head and help him think.
The snow cavorted in thick, lazy flakes through the night air, and his breath formed clouds in the cold as he pulled back his sleeve. The marks were clearer in the warm spill of light from the lantern over the door, winding around his wrist in delicate spirals, like ink traced beneath his skin.
“Hells and cinders,” he muttered, the pointed tip of his tail quivering like it often did when danger was approaching.
Behind him, the tavern door opened, gushing golden light and laughter into the darkness. He quickly yanked down his sleeve and turned to see Iris stepping out, wrapped in her heavy cloak.
“I thought you might need this,” she said, offering him a steaming mug. “Lira’s chai.”
He accepted it gratefully and let the warmth seep into his fingers. “Thank you.”
The apothecary bustled the front of her cloak together with one hand, the icy air clearly not as welcome for her. “Would you like to talk about it?”
For a moment, he considered telling her everything. Iris had been an adventurer herself once, after all. But the words died in his throat. What could he say? That he was cursed with dark magic? He didn’t even know that for sure. “It’s nothing.”
Iris studied him for a long moment, a shadow of a smile playing across her face, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she saw right through his lie. But she only patted his arm. “Maybe it’s that sore throat returning.”
He met her gaze, not sure if she was calling him out for all his feigned illnesses, but her expression betrayed nothing. “Maybe.”
She jerked her head toward the tavern door. “I’m going to have a chat with Lira about the wedding. You stay outside as long as you need.”
She rested her hand on his arm, and for a moment, the heat of her touch masked the prickling of his skin. Then she gave a quick squeeze and slipped back into the tavern, leaving him alone with the cascading snow and his swirling thoughts.
Vaskel stood under the creaking wooden tavern sign for a long while, watching the light from the leaded windows paint golden squares on the icy ground and trying to come up with explanations for his marks.
Every single one made his blood run cold.